


I Feel You

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Mystrade is Our Division Prompts, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Touch





	I Feel You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Touch

The crime scene had been horrendous. Anderson was a bigger arsehole than usual. Sally was at her screeching worst in frustration with Sherlock. And Sherlock – without John there to reign him in from his more problematic outbursts was in rare form as he let loose vicious deductions on all around. Eventually the deductions included the scene at hand and after a chase – how is there almost always a chase with Sherlock(!) – a double murder was solved.

Unfortunately, the case was not solved before Greg slammed his hands down on a table in spike of anger at one of Sherlock’s more nasty outbursts that set a witness to tears. His hands landed in some gelatinous, viscous goop that at the time he was just grateful it was not acid and had not splattered onto his clothing. Still, because he had the misfortune of just taking having removed his protective gloves. He wiped his hands carefully with some wet naps and went on with his job. About fifteen minutes later his fingers feel went tingly and then his hands went numb.

The emergency doctor at St. Bart’s said it was something topical that should wear off in a couple of hours. If he was still numb in the morning, then come back in, but he was assured he would be fine and to go home. So, he did.

Greg had not really considered how much he depended on feeling things until he could not. And because he could not feel anything, he found himself wanting to touch everything.

Greg sighed as he shook out his trusty weatherproof black trench coat with crested metal buttons and insulated quilted lining. He could feel quality smoothness of the outer layer that kept him dry, the quilting that had kept his warm on the brisk day. The detail of the buttons meant nothing except visually. He emptied its pockets and straightened its collar before hanging the coat in the closet.

He ran his fingers over his shoes as he took them off. The sturdy heel, the leather of the outer sole how it was solid in some places for support, yet yielding in other places from years of comfortable wear. He could not feel the grains of dirt as he dusted off the shoes and placed them in the closet.

It was somewhat disconcerting to turn on the taps and run his hands under hot water. He felt the pressure of the water under his skin, but not the heat of it. That was dangerous. He carefully warmed up some soup and made himself a sandwich, only to be somewhat when the pressure on his tongue informed him that was the tip of his finger he nearly sank his teeth in as he bit down on the sandwich.

He ran his hands along what his brain told him was the nub of his wool trousers, the weave of his knit tie, the softness of his cotton shirt as he changed into the comfort of pyjamas bottoms and old academy tee. His fingers grazed along the Egyptian cotton sheets of a gazillion count as he climbed into bed. Nothing. It all felt so weird to feel so nothing.

What he wanted to touch the most was Mycroft, but Greg knew his husband was working late himself on some international intrigue and was not expected until the wee hours. Greg bemoaned the possibility of not being able to feel the contours of his husband’s face. The smooth forehead, just beginning to have permanent lines from the increasing frowns at the goldfish of the world. His hooked nose, the mole on the right side of his face the way his thumb feels gliding over his thin, but yielding lips.

No. He wasn’t going to do that to himself. He decided to grab a book and make an early night of it. The effects will have worn off by morning and his love will be home soon.

Greg had just settled into his book when he heard the front door open and slam close, his husband yelling for him. He was out of the bed when Mycroft rushed into the room pulling on rubber gloves and demanding to see his hands. He took one look at his husband’s panicked expression and immediately held them out. Mycroft squeezed cream from an unlabeled tube onto his own gloved hands and rubbed the ointment into Greg’s.

As he rubbed in the ointment Mycroft explained how Greg’s crime scene happened upon the lab of a chemist that Mycroft’s team was trying to find. Greg and a few others had come in direct contact of the toxin that was the base for a biological weapon. It was so new the doctor that treated Greg would not have known what he dealt with, the misdiagnosis was not his fault. Mycroft’s team had alerts set up to flag them if any mention of sudden numbness after contact with an unusual substance such came in from any medical facility in greater London. If the anti-dote was not applied within the first three hours of contact the nerve damage could have been severe or even permanent. Mycroft had gone pale when Anthea notified brought him the alert that one of the victims was his own husband. He immediately had the antidote brought to him and rushed home.

Within a quarter hour Greg felt the first tingles and then the pins and needles of pain as his numbed nerves came back to life in Mycroft hands.

Greg grinned as the sensation of the cool ointment slicked against the rubber gloves on Mycroft’s strong hands registered in his mind. He went to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands carefully once instructed to do so. In his haste, he came back into the bedroom and placed his wet hands on his husband’s face. Mycroft started to balk, but he stilled himself and accepted it.

“Better?” Mycroft smiled as he rubbed his slight stubble against one of Greg’s hands.

“Yes.” Greg ran a damp hand along Mycroft’s jaw.

“Now that I can feel things again, the only thing I want to touch right now is you.”


End file.
